


A Price Like No Other

by loosingletters



Series: that which we call home (and fall for) [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anakin just has a very rough start, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Force Choking (Star Wars), Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Murder, Omega Anakin Skywalker, Planet Tatooine (Star Wars), Sith Anakin Skywalker, Slavery, The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosingletters/pseuds/loosingletters
Summary: Never found by the Jedi, Anakin Skywalker at fourteen was pretty, and valuable. He was worth slightly more than the average slave, could count his worth in peggats, truguts, wupiupi, and Republic credits; water, too, if need be, and there always was on Tatooine.And then theheatcame.(Anakin Skywalker doesn’t stay a slave for long.)
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: that which we call home (and fall for) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2047820
Comments: 29
Kudos: 362





	A Price Like No Other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obikinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obikinn/gifts).



> My dear friend, this is for you. Originally, I was going to wait so this could be a proper gift, but I deserve to post this xD  
> Thanks for bullying me into writing what’s going to be "150K of A/B/O but make it Sith Obikin". Evidently, this is part one of the series. Mind the tags and have fun!  
> Beta read by my most talented and amazing friend :D

Anakin was fourteen, pretty, and a child. He was pretty useful too, smart and capable of finishing quite a lot of tasks. He also got sick only very rarely despite having no vaccinations, and Watto had been kind enough not to leave any grand scars so that most of the scarring Anakin did have was minimal. He was worth slightly more than the average slave, could count his worth in peggats, truguts, wupiupi, and Republic credits; water, too, if need be, and there always was on Tatooine.

And then the _heat_ came.

Anakin had been feeling sick the day before, but still he had gone to work and finished at the same time as always, perhaps having done his tasks a little slower than usual. For years to come, he'd be thankful for the storms that had wreaked havoc on Tatooine for a week after he'd stumbled home, already feverish.

_("That was not the doing of your gods," Obi-Wan said, years in the future, guiding Anakin through another kata. "Just your own. The Force does adore you."_

_"Not enough to have kept me from Tatooine in the first place."_

_Obi-Wan laughed, mirthlessly, and if Anakin didn't know him any better, he would say that he was making fun of Anakin. Instead, he was just grieving for the child who had made the same accusations._

_"No, the Force is not kind enough for that."_

_But this exchange wouldn't be for years.)_

Hiding in a nest of blankets in the house he used to share with his mother, Anakin experienced his first heat. Outside, the sandstorms were howling, worse than they had in decades, forcing everyone to stay inside. They split the world in two, those who could live comfortably in their wealth and those who wondered whether they could survive a storm such as this one. Water was always short in the slave quarters especially, and so the people were forced to rush beneath the tunnels that no Master should know about, collecting food and water in hopes that they'd be able to get everyone through. Some denied their own allotted rations, gave them away. With dry lips they'd smile, call this the release they were too cowardly to give themselves, that just this once the desert would provide instead.

It was during those early hours, running errands and preparations that they found Anakin, sweating and curled up.

"I'm so sorry," old Jira said, running her hands gently through Anakin's hair as he cried out for a mother long gone, for comfort and safety. "So, so sorry, my dear."

Anakin hardly noticed her words, dreaming of his mother by his side, handing him precious drops of water and food. In reality, as the weather only continued to grow worse, claiming more and more lives, the pleasure slaves that hadn't been in the brothels at the time the storm started took turns looking over Anakin. He was by far not the first Omega they saw through their first heat, though very rarely they actually got the chance to watch over the child in question. Usually, the moment a Master took notice, the child would be dragged off to an auction, feverish and incoherent to spend each night in the bed of another.

Somebody would have to speak with Anakin once he was more coherent, fill the role of a parent and a guide. Shmi Skywalker had been blessed because she had been a Beta woman, quite valuable on the Outer Rim for the characteristics they attributed to her designation. However, she was not an Omega and wouldn't be able to tell Anakin what exactly he'd have to be prepared for in the future.

Reality returned to Anakin only slowly. As the heat had crept upon him, it left him the same way, until one morning he found himself staring into the face of Kitster's mother. She gently pushed breakfast into his hands so he'd start to eat and waste no energy on crying.

_(Anakin had never been a child that was quick to cry, such would have to be taught to him in another world where water wasn't as precious and his life not as harsh. But Anakin was also not a stupid child. He knew what it meant to be an Omega on a planet such as Tatooine.)_

Upon awakening, Anakin was suddenly worth a fortune. No longer just fourteen and pretty, no, now he was _desirable_ , a newly-presented Omega, an adult in the eyes of Tatooine's slave market.

"You might be lucky enough with Watto," Tatami Banai said, her own son sitting at her other side. "He deals in junk. He might just let you continue on and benefit from the extra customers you will pull in."

It wasn't a lie, but it was far from the likeliest possibility. Anakin's hands curled into fists and once more he wished he knew where exactly they had put the explosive in his body. His tools and knives were sharp enough and Anakin was desperate enough to try to dig it out without any aid at all, in the middle of the night. He might bleed out on the sand, but it would be worth it. There would be a less valuable freedom in it, but at least some freedom at all.

"Watto has debts," Anakin only replied. "Lots of them. It would be stupid to keep me in the shop."

At least, to keep Anakin there during the nighttime when he could be worth something more than still.

He knew, he knew, he _knew_ how his story was going to end. He had seen it a hundred times already. He'd stand behind the counter during the day and be sent off to a brothel during the night. Tatami knew it as well, had this been her life for years. She was too old now to actually serve. Instead, she looked after the younger people in her Master's ownership, taught them and introduced them to the life, showed them how to smother their children before they could be taken away.

The thought made Anakin nauseous, but even more than that, it made him angry. He could just imagine himself a year from now, standing crouched over one hyperdrive or another, belly round as Watto already made deals to sell off his child. Anakin, who had always dreamed of the stars, now felt more trapped than ever before.

"I'm sorry, Ani," Tatami said.

"Yeah," Anakin hiccupped. "I'm sorry too."

Then he buried his face in her shirt so he wouldn't have to think any more on it. He just breathed in her comforting scent and told himself that he wasn't going to let this bury him.

When the storms receded and Anakin prepared to head back to work, he considered running away, staring out of the window. Bleeding out far in the desert would be preferable to this life perhaps, but Anakin was not a coward, never had been, wind rushing through his hair as he won one race after another, his skills sharpening with each time he nearly died.

Instead, he held his chin high as he walked into his Master's workshop and went about starting his daily tasks, determined to avoid the topic for as long as Watto would allow him to.

Watoo, of course, didn't give him more than a couple minutes, and the only reason it took that long at all was that Watto had never been the best at picking up at scents.

"Omega, huh?" Watto said, flying around Anakin and inspecting him like a particularly expensive speeder. "Ha! Knew that keeping you was worth it."

He patted Anakin's shoulder like it was a job well done, as if Anakin had decided to become an Omega just to please his Master. Anakin wanted to do nothing more than cut off Watto’s hand, break every miserable bone in his body and bury him deep, deep beneath the sand where he could never touch him again.

_("I did," he confessed later, describing every gory detail as Obi-Wan listened attentively. "I buried him so deep, I thought the sand might swallow me too.")_

Perfectly well-behaved, as if dried out from the sun, Anakin followed Watto as the Toydarian led him out of the shop and down the red light district. It wasn't so busy yet, with most patrons out and the slaves going about their daytime tasks. Watto traveled deep into the district until he came to a stop in front of a large building. He pounded against the door of a man Anakin knew Watto had more than just one large debt to. He almost wanted to grin, bare his teeth like a krayt dragon, because he had known where all of this would end and the thought of sinking his teeth into Watto and ripping out his throat seemed more and more appealing.

Yet when he wanted his body to move, he couldn't do it.

"Watto!" the human man who opened the door roared. "You better have my money."

"I have something better," Watto countered and pushed Anakin forward. "Newly-presented human Omega. Entirely untouched, just had his presentation heat."

"Oh?" the man crossed his arms thoughtfully. "You think this will do then?"

He leaned forward and put one hand beneath Anakin's chin, tilted it up. It took all Anakin had not to snap and bite into his hand. He kept his eyes focused on the slaves standing behind the man, dressed in thin clothes, covered with bruises of various colors, and other injuries and decorations. They looked at him with pity, though he couldn't be much older than some of them. He didn't want their pity, he wanted their outrage, the kind of anger he had been swallowing, so it left him feeling hollow.

"He certainly is in good shape," the man finally announced. "I'll take him."

He moved to pull Anakin closer, but Watto held him back, his hand on Anakin's shoulder almost bruising. "I was thinking. Anakin here has served me well and just handing him over would be bad business, eh? I'm sure we can work out something more beneficial."

They then talked business for hours certainly, though their exchange was so quick, it could also just be done within minutes. They decided the price of Anakin's first heat, the most valuable one, and any further heats and the regular night. Watto spat and hissed about how much money he should get for Anakin's work. Certainly, Anakin being up all night would be detrimental to his daytime work. When they started discussing how much any possible offspring could be worth, Anakin imagined sullying his hands with his children's blood, preventing them from ever joining this life.

Otherwise, Anakin stayed quiet throughout it all.

It wasn't like he had much of a choice when Watto shook hands with the man, sealing the deal and signing him away. Not that choice was worth much at all. For all that they liked to call it _little freedom_ in the mix of Huttese, Ryl, Basic, and other trader languages spoken in the slave quarters, those that hadn't been born into slavery were quick to remind them that no choice they made could truly compare to real freedom.

"Bring him tonight," the man said. "I'll set something up meanwhile. He still smells like presentation heat, that always earns a couple extra credits."

Anakin spent the remainder of the day in the workshop, cleaning, drawing in customers. Watto had to keep a close eye on them, least of all they ruined his newest investment before he could cash it in. Anakin hated how monotonous the work was, how simple and familiar.

_("I couldn't even be nervous," he remembered, drawing circles on the warm body next to his. "I was just waiting and hoping the desert would swallow me up when the time came.")_

When the skies turned dark, Anakin didn't walk home again. Instead, he was picked up by an old Beta slave dressed only a little better than his companion.

"It'll be alright," he said. "You will get used to it. You're a strong one, kid, you can endure it."

But Anakin found that he didn't want to endure and yet he sat still as they put kohl around his eyes, scrubbed his skin clean, and dressed him up in the same fancy garments all the slaves around here wore. Somewhere it bothered him that they had clothes that fit him so perfectly, wondered who they had belonged to before they had been handed to him.

The music in the club was deafening and yet, somehow still, Anakin could hear the wind brushing over the sands, hypnotizing and calling him. Almost distractedly, he let himself be placed in the middle of the room, turned deaf as they began to auction him off for the night. Any wandering hands were quickly brushed aside to avoid tainting him and after what felt like hours, Anakin had been sold off. They brought him up to a room that smelled too sweet with a bed bigger and more comfortable than his own. The one window in it was locked from the inside. The handcuffs attached to the bed almost seemed like a mockery of the golden chains he was already wrapped in.

"You will endure this too," the slave who had brought him up said, their eyes incredibly kind. They whispered a quick prayer and kissed Anakin's forehead before they left the room, Anakin remaining on the bed that was too big for his small frame.

This was his life now. This is what it would be until he was too old, too used, too broken— 

_No_.

The sound resonating in his head was so loud that Anakin was violently shaken from the stupor he had pushed himself in. Feeling returned to his limbs, to his senses. The world seemed much more vibrant than before as awareness bloomed like the spring flowers, delicate and poisonous.

Blood rushed through his veins, anger as fiery as the suns, a rage like he had encountered it only once, holding his mother's bruised and beaten body, blood drenching the sand red. He had screamed then too, and the universe had wept with him, each and every star as loud as an entire choir.

The door smacked open as tonight's winner sauntered inside so very confidently. He strode over to Anakin, dark eyes glinting with intent. Quicker than Anakin could possibly scramble away from him, he pushed Anakin down on the mattress, his hand on Anakin's throat, cutting off the airflow. He pressed his face into Anakin's neck, deeply inhaling.

"You're so _sweet_ ," he breathed. His breath was disgusting, it smelled like rot and decay and Anakin wanted out, out, _out_. With one hand, the man reached beneath the loose robes Anakin had been put into, sharp fingernails dug into Anakin's thighs, forced them apart and Anakin couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream, helpless and yet— 

He wanted the man to feel exactly as he did at that moment, forced into immobilization by a power grander than him. The helplessness, the pain, the anger, the _fear_. That vile bastard deserved to suffer from it all, worse than Anakin did.

He imagined the desert heeding his call, twice as sharp as any blade, ruthlessly cutting into skin and pouring down the man's throat.

"You— " the man began to cough. Louder and louder. Then he began to choke.

His two hands went to his own throat, away from Anakin as he frantically tried to reach for the breath that Anakin had so desperately sought before.

Breathing heavily, heat rushing to his head, Anakin imagined squeezing, _crushing_ his neck. He stretched out his hand, his nails digging painfully in his own palm as he copied an action he had only ever seen others perform, but without touching the man's skin. He didn't want to be near him, didn't want to feel what his flesh would be like. As his breath quickened more and more, his mind confused about whether he was the predator or the prey, the man’s stopped entirely. His body fell down on Anakin, the weight as heavy as a bantha, and Anakin quickly scrambled out from beneath him. The man smelled disgusting, like alcohol, spice, and sex, and Anakin needed to get rid of it, scrub himself clean so that he could be mistaken for a newborn, entirely scentless.

Anakin half-stumbled into the corner of the room, struggling for air that didn't reek of death. Then, cowering there as the boy grew cold, Anakin stared at him.

He was dead.

The ring of marks around the man's throat, a mockery of hickeys, a sign of his strangulation, the desert swallowing him whole somehow seemed too precious to adorn his skin. He hadn't deserved even this, being a victim of such skill. His death should have been as disgusting as he has been.

Anakin registered that the danger was over, but the power he had used still ran through Anakin's veins like ichor.

And he didn't feel like giving it up.

He imagined the winds, their strength and, looking at the window, he thought of their might and ripped off the lock, shattering the glass in the process. He caught a glance of his own reflection in the splinters, a terrifying young child, gold in his clothes, and in his eyes. The shards cut Anakin, but he barely noticed the pain.

Without any regard for the ground below, confident that the wind would carry him, Anakin jumped out of the window. The fabric caught on the glass and ripped, but Anakin didn't _care_. For the seconds he was in freefall, he thought he had grown the wings his mother had sketched so often in the sand for him.

He was out of that place and he wouldn't return, not for anything, not for anyone. Never ever would he let anybody touch him like that again, against his will. He'd force them to choke on the sand like the man lying dead, cooling in that room, and he would not let Watto attempt to sell him to another.

He didn't know how he walked through the streets without anyone rushing up to him, asking questions, trying to take him away right then and there, leaving a bloody bite on his throat. As soon as the question arose in his mind, Anakin disregarded it as insignificant.

He had a goal in mind.

Watto lived right behind the workshop. His house was by no means impressive, but it was his own and without a doubt, he'd be there now. Anakin could feel it as if Watto had a tracker inside him like a slave. It was easier than navigating Beggar's Canyon half-blind.

Blood dripped down Anakin's legs and hands where he had cut himself on the glass. It fell into the sand, still warm, discoloring the ground like the late summer storms.

Watto looked so, so pitifully _weak_ asleep, snoring away without care as Anakin would have been brutalized.

How had Anakin ever let him determine anything? Dictate his whole life?

He should have killed him years ago.

He should have killed him when he hadn't been able to meet ends and his mother had to pay the price. Anakin should have killed him then, made him feel what it was like to get violated for hours and feel all the pain.

He didn't put his hands around Watto's throat, but he squeezed all the same, stealing his breath. Watto woke with fear in his eyes, staring up into Anakin's eyes.

He was scared.

He was _terrified_.

Anakin grinned, relishing in the feeling. It felt like a rush, like the first drop of water after a whole day of work without. Anakin imagined biting into a precious fruit, the juice running down his skin, licking it off his fingers. It was divine, ambrosia and nectar of the gods.

"You deserve it," Anakin hissed.

He was breaking every chain Watto had ever put him in.

The light In Watto's eyes went out as Anakin dug his fingernails in his mind, tore it to shreds like his dress. Drool dripped out of Watto's mouth as he died. Cold, he lay in his own bed, killed by the slave he had sold to another just this morning.

Anakin's head felt light, drunk on his victory. He wanted to return home, curl up in his makeshift nest, but he couldn't. He had a job to finish first.

He had never been in Watto's house before for any longer than it took him to grab whatever item Watto had sent him off to find. But right at this moment, Anakin was sure he had all the time in the galaxy. It certainly felt like he was at the top of the word.

He pulled open every cupboard, box, and drawer with growing impatience until finally, in the furthest corner, hidden beneath a thousand other things, he found it; the counterpart to the bomb implanted somewhere in his body.

He stared at the little remote in his hand, unable to understand how this small thing was worth a life.

Without this, nobody could do him any harm again. He was _free_ , truly free, and didn't have to cling to the pathetic imitation they dared call choice.

He was free and nobody would enslave him again.

Still caught in his high, Anakin grabbed a bag and stuffed everything inside it that he thought he could use in the future. Watto had no use for it anymore anyway. He was gone and would stay dead.

When Anakin was finished, he grabbed Watto's body and marched off into the night, the desert in front of him.

Nobody would stop him again. He'd bury Watto deep and let his spirit suffocate endlessly.

Though he couldn't see it, his eyes were as bright as the suns above and all that was good and kind in the universe, that which died with his mother, wept for the child too angry and terrified to see what darkness he had thrown himself into.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> This is part one! Not sure yet exactly how chronologically I will write this series since it's long, but oh well. I'd love to hear what you think!


End file.
